Chapter Two

The human world didn’t ask questions. It didn’t care who I had been, or what I had lost. That was exactly what I needed. I traded forest paths for crowded sidewalks, the howl of wolves for the constant buzz of city life. I found a city big enough to disappear in, where no one knew my name—and for a while, that anonymity became my salvation. It wasn’t peace—not really—but it was silence. And after everything, silence felt like a kindness.

But even in that silence, he found me.

Not in person—never that—but in flashes: his voice in the back of my mind, his scent riding the breeze when no one else noticed. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, chest aching like the bond had only just broken. No matter how far I ran, some part of him still echoed inside me. That was the thing no one warned me about—when a bond dies, it doesn’t vanish. It lingers. It bruises. And it always remembers.

**

The nightmares started around the third week.

At first, I thought they were just echoes—memories my mind hadn’t sorted yet. But they came too often, too vivid. Every night, like clockwork, I’d find myself back in the Redstone forest, running. Sometimes toward something. Sometimes away. But always alone.

Last night was the worst.

I saw Grayson’s eyes—those storm-gray eyes—and they weren’t looking at Blair. They were looking at me. He reached for me, mouth forming my name, but I couldn’t hear him. The wind stole his voice. And then she stepped between us, her smile sharp enough to draw blood, and everything shattered.

I woke up gasping, the sheets twisted around my legs, my body slick with sweat. My chest throbbed—not in a metaphorical sense, but a real, physical ache, like someone had ripped something out and left the wound open.

Even after everything, the bond still left traces behind.

I sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to push the dream away. It didn’t work. It never did.

A knock at the apartment below made me flinch. Just a delivery, probably. But for a heartbeat, my instincts kicked in. I stilled. Listened. Scanned for a scent that would never be there. That old part of me—the wolf—hadn’t gone completely dormant. It was just... buried.

Some mornings, like this one, I felt it stir.

The bond was gone, yes. Snapped like a dry branch. But bonds don’t vanish cleanly. They leave splinters. Little invisible thorns that still pressed against my heart in quiet moments.

And I hated that I still reached for him. Not in love. Not anymore. But in habit.

I ran a hand over my chest, feeling the echo of what had been. There was no mark, no scar to show what I’d lost. But inside... I was littered with wreckage.

Some part of me still hoped for closure. Some final word. A rejection spoken aloud instead of silently delivered with a kiss meant for someone else. But maybe this was the cost of surviving a bond that never had the chance to grow.

I stood, grabbed the mug of cold coffee from my nightstand, and moved to the window.

The city didn’t know me. Didn’t care. But the moon was still there, hanging low and pale between buildings like it was watching. I didn’t know whether to curse her or thank her.

So I did neither.

I just stared up, willing myself to feel nothing.

**

I kept my head down at first. Took a job at a small 24-hour diner tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The kind of place with cracked vinyl booths, a stubborn coffee machine, and regulars who came more for routine than food. It was the perfect kind of ordinary. Predictable. Safe.

No one asked where I came from. No one cared that I sometimes flinched at sudden noises or stared too long at the moon. I was just the quiet new girl who showed up on time and always remembered how each customer took their eggs.

That’s where I met Victoria.

She worked the night shift with me—mouthy, sharp-eyed, and always chewing gum that matched her mood. At first, I didn’t know what to make of her. She talked like she’d known me forever and teased me like we were already friends. I kept my walls up, but she never seemed to notice... or maybe she just didn’t care.

“I’ve decided you’re tragic,” she said one night while restocking napkin holders. “You’ve got that haunted, wounded-heroine look going on. But don’t worry, I like tragic.”

I didn’t respond, just rolled my eyes. But a part of me—some small, starved part—was grateful.

Over time, she became my anchor. She knew when to talk and when to shut up. She never pried, but she noticed everything. She always slid an extra muffin onto my plate at the end of a shift, claimed it was a “perk of dealing with creeps at 2 a.m.”

Victoria made the silence feel less hollow. Less lonely. She didn’t know the whole truth—no one here did—but somehow, she saw enough. And for now, that was more than I thought I’d ever have again.

**

The diner was mostly empty during the early evening lull. A few regulars sipped their coffees in silence, the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the background.

Victoria leaned against the counter, watching Celeste from across the room as she wiped down the tables with mechanical precision. There was no rhythm to her movements. Just motion. As if keeping her body moving kept her from sinking.

She hadn’t smiled once since she walked in.

Victoria waited until the space between orders grew quiet, then slipped around the counter and approached her.

“You wanna sit for a sec?” she asked casually, nodding toward one of the empty booths.

Celeste blinked, as if the suggestion didn’t quite register. Then, slowly, she nodded.

They sat opposite each other in the booth by the window. Outside, dusk had settled over the city, casting long blue shadows across the floor.

Victoria studied her for a moment, not trying to hide it.

Celeste stared at her hands, folded neatly in front of her like she was bracing herself for judgment.

“I know you’re not okay,” Victoria said gently.

Celeste flinched. Not dramatically—just a small wince, like truth hitting sore skin.

“I’m not trying to make you talk,” Victoria added. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this alone.”

Celeste’s voice was so quiet it was barely audible. “I don’t know how to let people help me.”

“That’s fair,” Victoria said. “I’ve been told I’m stubborn as hell too.”

Celeste gave a faint, ghost of a smile. Not a real one. Just something that wanted to be.

Victoria leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “You don’t have to say anything. But just... be here with me, okay? Let someone care about you. Even if it’s just for five minutes.”

Celeste swallowed hard. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something more hollow. A tired ache. A grief she didn’t have words for.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m already gone,” she whispered. “Like everyone’s looking past me and they don’t even realize I’m still here.”

Victoria didn’t rush to fill the silence. She just reached out and took Celeste’s hand gently in hers.

“I see you,” she said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Celeste looked away, her jaw trembling.

They sat like that for a while—no more words, just quiet and warmth and hands clasped in the space between them.

Victoria didn’t know if it helped. But she hoped it did.

Even a little.